


The Problem With Bees

by gryfeathr



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Allergies, Bees, Bugs & Insects, Bullying, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Dragon Age Spoilers, Gen, Mild Gore, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 01:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7488753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryfeathr/pseuds/gryfeathr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>De-Anon from the Dragon Age Kink Meme</p>
<p>Inquisitor Trevelyan likes blood in her teeth and crushing people with a large hammer. So there's no way she could be scared of something so simple, and she'll make sure no one finds out.</p>
<p>Contains brief mentions of past hurtful, misogynistic language and bullying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Problem With Bees

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from the DA Kink Meme: 
> 
> "So there's a bee in my house and I'm literally so tereified I can't go in, I'm just sitting in the car with a galon of water and my dog.  
> Gives me an Inquisitor with a terrible fear of buzzing creatures, like she's a BAMF almost consistantly, but if she hears a buzz she screeches and just cant function. Goosebumps, shaking, crying, ect."

Trevelyan bared her teeth at the horrible crunch of bone giving way underneath the weight of several pounds of iron. She stepped into the dragging weight of the war-hammer, letting it carry her over the body in a swing that pulled it up out of the corpse and back into the air. She scanned the field around her, eyes wide, breathing rough, and battle singing in her blood. A target, the next target--

Nothing. There was only Dorian, Sera, and Cassandra standing in the field with her, ragged bodies scattered at their feet. She could feel the blood lust making her mouth dry and her hands shake, demanding more, but she closed her eyes and breathed in deep.

She could taste the copper of blood, the thicker smell of gore, the acrid scent of piss from scared men knowing they were about to die.

“That’s a good job done, then,” she announced across the battlefield. She slung the hammer over her shoulder, wiping a bit of blood off her mouth with the back of her hand. She nudged a body with one heavily armored boot, and frowned at the blood soaked robes. 

“Not Vinties, these,” said Sera brightly, crouched by one and rummaging through the robes. 

Dorian rolled his eyes and gusted out a long-suffering sigh. 

“Dear Sera, how many times must I tell you? Tevinter mages ooze smoke and laugh evilly while casting spells, honestly, these people could barely throw a proper ball of fire,” he said, leaning on his staff and watching her steal from the dead.

“They all look the same to me. People who don’t know how to keep their hands and brains and green weirdo light shite to themselves,” announed Sera.

Cassandra, an actual saint, ignored them and instead turned to scan the slope of the Hinterlands back hills around them. 

“Poor sods,” said Trevelyan. “More rebel mages, would you say, Cass?”

“Seeker Casssandra, please,” said Cassandra wearily. “And yes, I agree with your estimation. With able body guards. Too able, but they don’t have any orders on them that we need and they aren’t the rogues I’m looking for.”

“Oh boohoo, we killed some baddies but they weren’t the right baddies, what a shame,” said Sera, rolling her eyes. She moved on to the next body, shameless in her ruthless efficiency. 

Trevelyan snorted, quietly agreeing. The mages had been on their way towards Redcliffe village and had attacked them on sight, their eyes wide with crazed fear and purpose, and they had stunk of blood. She looked away, taking a moment to reorient herself. There was the tree line that lead to the abandoned fort that still housed a nest of bandits; that way was the steep hill that let her get a view of the dirt track that eventually would take her towards Redcliffe village. 

The wind hissed through the trees and grass, rattling them. Sera was making up a song and trying to rhyme britches with something that wasn’t bitches, Dorian was asking Cassandra something and Cassandra was trying to pretend she couldn’t hear. 

There was something else.

Travelyan frowned as the wind died down and loose strands of dark hair fell before her eyes. It teased at the edge of her hearing, a low thrumming sound, not unlike--

She gasped, abruptly, and jerked to the right as the sound hovered by her ear. Panic crashed through her chest and gripped her lungs as she stumbled backward, eyes wide as she jerked a hand through the air where she had been. The sound followed her, caught in the waves of her hair.

“Herald?” came Cassandra’s shocked voice, distant and tinny.

Trevelyan scrambled, turning wildly, trying to find the source of the sound. She knew it was there, she knew it, her heart was racing and her hands were trembling and she felt light-headed. It was there, she knew it was there, the fucking bee was right there by her fucking face and she couldn’t--

Hands grabbed her shoulders and she ripped away from them, frantically running her hands through her hair as the sound followed her.

“No, no, get it away, get it away,” she begged, her voice shaking and slipping dangerously high-pitched. She hated it, she hated when it did that, she hated it (you scream like a girl, Trevelyan, get over it if you want to train with the men) and she couldn’t stop, it wouldn’t stop, the panic just kept gripping her lungs tighter and tighter and the sound just wouldn’t leave.

She tripped, falling on her ass with a jolt that she barely felt. Her breathing skipped and she could feel the pressure of tears threatening her eyes. 

“--got it!” shouted Sera, suddenly, swooping in front of her. Trevelyan jerked her eyes to the woman, who now had her hands cupped around something and was whooping triumphantly with them gripped together tightly in the air.

Trevelyan stared, numbed, as Dorian knelt down in front of her sprawled and armored legs with his brows lifted and Cassandra hovered like an awkward shadow behind him.

“Herald?” said Cassandra, her voice stern. “What exactly happened?”

Dorian rolled his eyes and put a hand on her shoulder, and Trevelyan jumped at the contact. 

“Are you alright?” he asked her, voice far too kind and she hated it, she hated the pity, she couldn’t take it. Trevelyan jerked her head in a nod, angry as she wiped a hand over her face and smeared her tears with the blood already on her cheeks. 

“I’m fine,” she snapped, and sort of regretted it when Dorian pulled back with surprise at the violence of it. “I’m fine, I’m fine, get--I can stand, I’m fine.”

She struggled to her feet as Dorian backed away from her, his hands lifted and staff tucked awkwardly under his arm. She ignored Cassandra’s bewildered expression and stomped over to her war hammer to hide the way she was still shaking. A fine trembling had hold of her body, and she couldn’t banish it, nor could she calm the harsh edge of her breathing. 

Sera was cooing to her hands.

“Oh lookit you, a fine nice little whats-it! All wriggly butt and shiny. Aren’t you just the best stinky thing?” Sera was saying. 

“And what foul beast did you save us from, Sera?” asked Dorian brightly. 

“I ain’t showing you,” she spat at Dorian, sticking out her tongue. “I’m gonna keep it and call it StinkyButt.”

“We should head back to the tents and see if the scouts have better news,” Cassandra decided, her voice heavy and final. Sera groaned, but didn’t argue as Cassandra set her shield over her back and headed down the hill. Trevelyan found herself following along behind them, her war hammer a heavy weight over her shoulder and still dripping gore. She barely noticed. 

After a few minutes, she found strength in her legs again and shoved past Cassandra to take the lead. 

“This way’s shorter,” she grunted, and Cassandra didn’t try to argue as they headed back to camp.

\---

Thank Andraste’s holy blessing that burned in her palm, but no one mentioned it when they got back to camp. Cassandra, she expected; Dorian surprised her; but more than that, the fact Sera didn’t launch into how ‘Trevelyan got scared of a bug, the big dumb wuss’ was more puzzling. She kept expecting it as the sun went down and Cassandra stomped around the edges of the camp and scared the scouts. Soon the darkness had drawn close to the tents, the two fires the only thing holding it back, while the Hinterlands settled into the night to the chorus of the bugs in the distance and the frogs that lived in the nearby lake. 

She should have known it was just a matter of time.

As scouts filtered into the night and Cassandra took up her habitual stance waiting for the first watch, Trevelyan sat on a felled log next to the fire. Her excuse was that she was watching it and wanted to get all the blood off her things before anything could start rusting, but she couldn’t forget her break-down in the woods. It was stupid. It was so, so stupid and she’d thought she’d been over it, but no. 

No, she’d fallen apart like a little girl in front of Cassandra and Dorian, and Sera. She could snap most men in half and laughed when she crushed skulls, and she’d fallen apart. 

Anger giving her tired arms vigor, she scrubbed viciously at the blood congealed on her breast plate with a stiff haired brush and tried to forget it had happened. If she didn’t talk about it, if she made a point of glaring when the thought even came into their minds, it would be fine. They’d forget about it--or at least be too scared to bring it up to anyone else.

“Oye, Herald.” It was Sera’s voice, annoyed, and from behind her shoulder. Trevelyan refused to look up as the woman slung one leg over the tree trunk and sat down to face her, straddling the wood (hah, Sera would have liked that pun) and squinting at her. 

“Oye, Sera,” Trevelyan said. It was more dangerous to ignore her.

“Hah, yeah, that’s me. Lookit!” Sera grabbed something out of the bag at her hip and shook it at her. Trevelyan reared back, narrowly avoiding a hit to the face from a -- glass bottle? Squinting, she tried to make out the contents in the orange glow from the firelight. Sera, frowning, scooted closer and shook it in her face again, making something rattle.

“Sera, cut it out,” Trevelyan said, shoving at her shoulder.

“Why’s it not working?” Sera demanded. “I thought it’d work.”

“Why’s what not working?” Trevelyan asked. Rattle, rattle--”Oh come on, give it here!”

She snatched at the thing and Sera snarled, but let her take it. Under Sera’s demanding stare, Trevelyan put down her brush and held the bottle in both hands, holding it up to the light. Inside, a little crumpled at the bottom, was what looked to be a big cicada. One wing was partially crushed from rough handling, and it was attempting to crawl pathetically across the bottom.

Trevelyan felt bad for it. Confused, she looked at Sera blankly.

“Why do you have a cicada?” she asked.

“‘Cause I thought’d make you scream like a prissy lil’ girl,” said Sera, matter of fact. “You’re nearly impossible to prank, it’s stupid. Nobody’s supposed to be that bad at pranking, you just laugh or do nothing!”

“You want to prank me. With a cicada,” Trevelyan said, flatly amused. “I’m not scared of bugs, Sera, good try.”

“Yeah, you are! Don’t lie about it!’ Sera demanded, punching the wood. Then wincing and shaking her hand, because it had hurt. “I was there! That thing got all tangled in your hair and you fell over.”

“Sorry, Sera, try again,” Trevelyan said, snorting. The cicada seemed to have recovered a bit from Sera’s tender care, resting a moment, and then twitching. It’s heavy wings vibrated, and a low buzzing sound echoed inside the glass.

Her heart jumped into her throat and her breath caught. She shoved it hard in the direction of Sera’s chest, the edges of panic prickling under her skin.

“Take Stinkybutt and release him somewhere, by Andraste, you’re torturing the thing,” Trevelyan said, trying to keep up her disinterested tone through force of will alone.

“No! It’s mine now. Stupid lying nobles,” Sera muttered, but Trevelyan was used to that part by now. It had lost it’s sting, and she thought Sera kept it up mostly out of habit and stubbornness. Refusing to show Sera any sign of weakness, Trevelyan grabbed the brush and tried to scrub louder than the agitated buzzing from Sera’s pet. Maybe she could just drown it out, and not think about the sticky chill that swept over her skin.

Sera muttered and hauled off somewhere. As soon as her muttering turned inaudible, Trevelyan stopped the scrubbing and just let her hands sit, lax, on top of her armor. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, trying to banish the sick crawling sensation that had taken over her.

She thought that would be the end of it, but she was wrong.

\---

“Absolutely not,” Trevelyan announced at the edge of the war table. Formerly the Haven chantry’s dining table for the chantry sisters, it was now covered in notes, errant daggers, and pieces of paper pinned down by heavy weights.

Ambassador Montilyet looked taken aback by the violence of the words, lifting her note board a little as if to deflect them.

“It’s unconventional, but it’s not entirely an idea without merit,” Spymaster Lelianna countered smoothly. “Sera is a wild card when it comes to her suggestions, but I can think of several ways we could use such a weapon.”

“Weapon? Leliana, you can hardly call a jar of bees a proper weapon,” Commander Cullen said.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Trevelyan, not caring if her voice had an edge and ignoring how tightly she was gripping the edge of the table. “No bees. We are not finding a man who breeds killer bees. There are not going to be bees. In jars. In anything. Especially not in Haven. None.”

“Perhaps we can discuss it another time. It is a bit of a wild chase to track the man down,” Ambassador Montilyet said, her voice pitched soft and gentle. It was the same voice she used when Bann Gennorn’s wife had had a fit insisting she be given better accommodations that had escalated into her faking a faint.

“No, we will not,” Trevelyan said, teeth gritted and slamming a fist down on the table. The weights on the map jostled.

Even Cullen was giving her a strange look now. She refused to back down, shoulders set despite the slight shaking, even as the silence fell heavy between the four of them.

“--Well, I think its time for a break,” said Lelianna. “I have a scout due in from Orlais. We can pick this up later.”

Trevelyan didn’t even wait for the heads of the Inquisition to murmur their agreement; she had turned on her heel, shoving her way out of the converted war room and into the worship hall. She stomped down the heavy carpet, a fury of stiff shoulders and clanking metal, and ignored the alarmed look on Mother Giselle’s face and the calculating stare of Vivienne from the distant corner. She shoved past a pair of Inquisiton soldiers in her way, making them stumble, and burst out into the bright late-morning sun. 

Her steps carried her down the front stairs, past the spy tent where Lelianna spent most of her time, and towards the excuse for a tavern. The ground was slush at this time of day, but she stopped just before the door with her hand lifted to shove it open.

Sera usually was nursing a pint in there, especially when she was sure she could charm free food out of the flustered innskeeper during the lunch hour.

No.

She walked past it instead, right out of Haven’s gates, and decided it was a perfect time to hit the straw practice dummies until they fell apart and she needed to make new ones in apology to Cullen and Cassandra.

She’d worked up a good sweat, removed half her armor, and was using a dull practice sword to just hit things when she heard footsteps. She glanced up, shoving hair out of her eyes, and--oh Andraste’s beautiful tits, (forgive her for using your name in vain), it was Sera, looking way too pleased with herself.

The last person she wanted to see. 

She set to ignoring her, stabbing a dummy in the chest viciously.

“Great idea, yeah? Josephine got that stick out of her arse and said she’d talk to you about it,” Sera announced, hopping over a snow drift. “Bees! Big arseload of bees! Stuff ‘em in a jar, shake ‘em up, get them angry, and hah! See how all those fancy stuffed shirts like their wigs n shit now!”

“I read the note, Sera,” she gritted out, yanking at the sword. She’d shoved it in too well, and had to get her foot up against the dummy to try and pull it out.

“You think it’s brilliant, right? You love people screaming and running all over the place. ‘Ahh!’ they'll go,” Sarah said, pitching her voice high and waving a hand in imitation of imaginary victims. “Bess up my arse! Bees up my pants! Bees up my shirt!”

Sweat broke on Trevelyan’s brow just thinking about it; the hum of a bee under her shirt, the sound dulled and echoing. The inescapable terror of them clustered by her hair. The hum of them, everywhere, a jar-full of the things exploding into the air and indiscriminately attacking anything in the way. A cloud of bees, darting, stinging--

“Hey, you’re supposed ta go, ‘Yes, Sera, that’s the best idea ever. I’ll get on it right away. Here, I’ll send Mr. Jackaboots running out to do it’,” said Sera, but her voice came from a far distance. 

“No bees, Sera,” she said, trying to remember how to breathe. A hard yank, and the sword finally came free of the straw, sending her stumbling back. Her palms were sweaty and she lost her grip, watching it drop into the snow at her feet with a clatter.

“Whaddya mean, no bees? You ain’t even listening!” said Sarah, her voice getting louder.

“No,” Trevelyan said, and it was supposed to be flat and final, but instead she imagined she just sounded desperate.

“You aren’t in charge of nothin’. You’re just--just--the Herald! You can’t say no!” Sera demanded. “Fine! Fine, if you’re going to be a big stupid stick n the mud, I’m gonna make that Ambassador lady’s life hell until she says yes.”

Trevelyan could only shake her head, kneeling down, grabbing the sword. Missing. Grabbing again, this time with the hilt in a firmer grip. Sera stomped off. Trevelyan stayed there, crouched to the ground with the sword hilt in her hand, staring at the mud. After a few minutes, she shoved the hair back from her face and forced herself to stand. 

With a shout, she swung the sword with two hands. The straw ripped apart, the flour-sack skin tearing open, and she threw the sword to the side. She didn’t care where it landed.

She turned to stalk off, and for a moment she felt pinned by the intrigued face of The Iron Bull.

She spat at the ground, and stomped back up to Haven’s gates.

\---

They needed to do a sweep of the Storm Coast. Reports of Tevinter agents had filtered back, and no one wanted that hanging over them when they tried to close the Breach. Trevelyan had been eager to get back to killing things, like she was good at, with the excuse of holy wrath on her side, and it had taken little convincing to lurch back out of Haven. She’d asked Bull to come, because he knew how to hunt down sneaky Tevinter agents, and she asked Dorian to come, because he was sort of a sneaky Tevinter agent, and she had Cassandra at her back in case either of them actually were sneaky somebody’s agents. 

She didn’t really think they were. The Iron Bull also understood the beautiful fury of a well executed beheading, so they got along as two professional psychopaths and he had good stories about the Chargers. She liked him. He was solid and he never used his size to make her feel small, or made stupid remarks like, ‘are you sure you wanna use something that heavy’ or ‘sure you can handle that?’

And Dorian was…. Dorian. He’d already proved himself, no matter how conflicted that made her feel with all the Tevinter and the Magic.

She just kinda liked having Seeker Cassandra around now that she’d stopped glaring at her every other minute. Sera had taken up the mantle, glaring at her and mouthing the word ‘bees’ at her every time they’d crossed paths, and otherwise was in a huge snit over the bee jar thing. It was a relief to not worry about her for a little while.

Also, the Storm Coast was always raining, and flying insects hated the rain. 

Not that she cared.

The camps on the Storm Coast were damp and depressing affairs. Most of them were on bluffs that overlooked the wild, storm thrashed sea, and the sound of the water crashing against rock was a constant rumble. As they left the primary camp to go trudging down to the beaches and start combing for wild mages, she just wanted to focus on the damp sticking under her armor and trying to not end up on fire via mistimed spell. She’d spent most of the ride there thinking about how much she hated Sera lately. The woman just didn’t know how to let something go.

The rain tailed off from a drizzle to a temporary reprieve mid-morning, when the sun tried to break through the clouds and dapple small patches of the flat rocks and craggy hills with light. The Iron Bull had suggested they search the beaches for signs of boats or landfall, so they were stuck along the coast while the scouts did their best to search deeper in the woods. It was safer for people not intending to find a battle to be in the woods, where they could hide or duck, but the coastline was wide open. No where to hide.

Trevelyan helped Iron Bull shove a giant fallen tree to the side, and Dorian knelt in the silt with his hand stretched towards the earth. Blue light flickered over his fingers and in his eyes, and he shook his head. 

“My apologies, but no trace of spell work here,” he said, popping to his feet and casting a dirty look at the ocean. “Another dead end, I’m afraid.”

Cassandra studied him with narrowed eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I am sure, my dear Seeker,” Dorian said, offering her his most charming smile. “It’s not my fault that it seems your eyes are going.”

“Excuse me?” Cassandra said, stepping towards him with a hand on the hilt of the mace she’d taken to carrying. “Are you implying that I am purposefully wasting our time?”

“Well, not on purpose,” Dorian hedged, and Cassandra drew in a deep breath. 

Trevelyan considered the value of heading off the brewing argument when a movement caught the corner of her eye. She turned her head, looking up the steep cliff to the ragged grass clinging at it’s top. There was something else there, a shape that didn’t belong.

“Incoming!” she shouted at the top of her lungs as light sparked into life above them, and she hauled her warhammer off her shoulders. 

Chaos erupted around them; lightning, fire. She charged out of the crackling threats, ducking to the right. If memory served, the right was the gentler slope, and she’d be able to find the fastest path to the sniping mages huddled amongst the trees above them. Dorian was yelling something, tossing fire back while magic splattered against his shielding, and the Iron Bull bellowed as he passed her. His long, heavy legs outmatched her and she struggled to keep up with the retreating wall of his back.

Everything dissolved to red; she no longer felt her legs, or arms, or even winded, although she knew her lungs were working hard as she climbed and fell upon the foolish mages who’d dared to attack them. The blood lust swept up in her, and she was grinning as she swung and caught a dark-robed woman off guard. 

Ducking bolts of lightning and crackling sigils, she heard Cassandra’s battle cry echo only moments behind her. Another man cried out, her hammer catching his arm mid-spell with a horrible crack. She stepped into the momentum, letting the hammer’s weight carry her in and out of the battle. The rhythm beat in her as the smell of blood and guts filled the air, and she could smell the burning crackling of the lightning catching in her hair or the leather bits of her armor.

She turned, the hammer dragging in the air behind her, and she was face to face with a panicked mage. She took him in as only brief impressions; thin face, wide brown eyes. His hood fell back and it had a strange pattern stitched into the edges. No lines on his face, young. Younger than her, his jaw still soft, he hadn’t hit puberty yet.

Trevelyan dragged her hammer up into the air into an arcing swing aiming for his shoulders, mouth stretched into a terrible bloodthirsty grin.

He threw up his hands, fear bleaching his skin pale. His mouth moved, and he jerked a small knife across his palm. The blood congealed, thickened, then flashed---

\--buzzing. There was buzzing in her ears, the sound of a thousand small wings humming. Her steps faltered as her chest seized with sudden and immediate panic, muscles ceasing to work. Her hammer missed him, gone wide, and he scrambled back from her while dozens of small insects filled her vision.

She couldn’t breathe. She wasn’t breathing. The hammer fell from her hands and thumped against the dirt. Maybe she screamed, her throat felt raw as she battered at the air and stumbled back. Her hands couldn’t catch them, nor push them away, and the horrible noise stuck with her. A rock caught her boot the wrong way and she fell backwards, snot running from her nose and her vision filled with tears and she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t run, there were bees everywhere dear Andraste please forgive the sinners of the world I am not afraid of the fire take me in your arms save me from this please please please

There were voices calling to her. A roar, a crunching sound, a high pitched scream that trailed away.

She realized the buzzing sound had stopped. Her hands were over her eyes and she was whimpering, curled back against a tree. Someone’s hand was on her shoulder, a heavy presence at her side.

“--Just an illusion, Cassandra, nothing to worry about, no ill after effects,” Dorian was saying, rushed and winded. He took a moment to gulp down a breath.

“Classless heathens,” he added, and he sounded darkly furious.

“Can you hear me, Boss?” rumbled the Iron Bull’s voice next to her. 

Trevelyan nodded, still shaking and oddly numb. She let her hands drop from her face, staring at them. Dread kept her from looking up at their faces, or even at anything beyond her knees.

Weak little girl.

I don’t think you can handle it, princess.

Stupid woman, don’t you get it!

That’s too big for you, I don’t think you should.

Let me get that for you.

She dragged in a deep breath, the terror still sitting deep inside her chest. It was next to the battered, bruised remains of her pride. 

“Alright. Okay,” the Iron Bull was saying, his hand still there--still firm. She hated it. “Killed all of them, Boss. Tevinter agents and two body guards. Time to see what they have on ‘em.”

“Well, that would be easy, but somebody threw one of them off a cliff,” Dorian said archly, and something in his tone mader Trevelyan look up. Next to her, the Iron Bull looked deeply pleased with himself. She turned her head to look beyond her knees, but she could only see bushes and trees. In her panic, she must have fled into the tree line, away, away and away, but she could smell that the dead were just a few feet away really. Her tripping had kept her from going too far.

A shake started in her hands. Cold filled her chest.

She couldn’t look at Cassandra. 

She lurched to her feet. The Iron Bull grunted in surprise as she jerked out from under his broad, gentle hand. 

“Trevelyan?” said Dorian, a half-second too late, as she shoved him out of her way hard enough to stumble and she stomped out of the trees. Dead men and women lay scattered like toys, some of them burnt, others half-crushed. Sera wasn’t here to frisk them for what few objects of worth they had; she bent and started to do it, yanking shirts and cloaks open to check for secret pockets. 

Behind her, she could feel the three of them looking at each other debating what to do with a Herald gone, obviously, utterly insane. That’s what she’d think, if she were them. If she’d just saw a six foot six woman scream her head off and go running into the bushes. Yeah. That’s what she’d think.

Saying nothing, she heard them join her, searching the bodies. They found a few coded messages that Cassandra took for safe keeping, a few trinkets worth some money, and one of the staves remained in good enough condition to take back with them. Dorian took it, the most comfortable with the thing. Trevelyan pushed ahead, not looking back to see if they followed, and skidded down the hillside back to the coastline and the easiest path back to camp.

She didn’t care that they were open targets, daring anyone to try to attack them and get away with it.

By the time that they were climbing the rough stone path to the primary camp, she’d had enough time to go from numb, to furious, to deeply embarrassed. The fast pace she’d set winded her, but she couldn’t slow down enough to let the others catch up. She could not meet their eyes; she didn’t want to see their faces. She blew past the outer sentry’s salute and “Welcome back, Herald,” not stopping until she’d gone past the tents and back into the brush, aiming for the edge of the bluff that stared out over the sea. 

She dropped her warhammer to her feet, marginally out of sight, and left it on the ground. Still going, she turned to the nearest tree and punched it as hard as she could with an explosive yell. The sound echoed down the empty cliff, catching on the hard angles of the rocks, and bounced up into the trees.

They left her alone. Behind her, she heard Cassandra’s strong voice, then the Iron Bull’s rumble. Dorian’s voice was a lighter, brighter top note. Eventually she ended up slumping down on top of a fallen boulder, warhammer forgotten, while she set her left hand in her lap.

Slowly, she shifted buckles and armor until she could peel the glove off her hand. Green embers sparked and flickered inside the slash across her palm. Sometimes she could look at it and forget that anything was there but a very strange scar, but not now. Aches settled into the joints of her fingers and pain flared in the skin around the Mark. Flexing her fingers just burned.

Heavy footsteps drew up behind her. Recognizing the tread of the Iron Bull, she debated what to do. Her back stiffened and she closed her hand around the Mark, hiding the mild green glow. He was a mercenary, and she couldn’t just spit at him like an angry cat until he left her alone. That didn’t work on him.

“Looks like Scout Harding’s got a few tricks up her sleeves,” said the Iron Bull, taking a seat next to her. Sitting on the boulder, she only came up to his shoulder. 

“Does she,” Trevelyan replied, voice flat.

“Damn fine scout you got there. Even knows who smuggled in the good stuff and knows how to share,” he said, taking a swig from a canteen in his hand. He made a pleased noise. “Still, for Qunari, nothing you guys make is really strong enough.”

He held it out to her silently, the offer weighty.

Trevelyan stared at the rough container, one side dented in. She was silent for a long time, or it just felt like it, before she snatched it out of his hand. In one smooth motion she gulped down a huge mouthful, and it tasted like burning and bad decisions. A hard swallow forced it down and she shoved it back at him.

“That tastes like shit,” she coughed, wiping the back of her hand over her mouth.

“Like I said, good stuff. I didn’t say what kind of good,” the Iron Bull told her, and she found herself snorting in response.

“So…,” he said. Trevelyan drew in her shoulders, hands curling into fists on top of her knees. “What’s the official party line on what happened out there? Bad day, evil Tevinter spell gone wrong, or….?”

“Why?” she ground out.

“So I know what I’m going to say when Cassandra and Dorian try to suss it out,” he said lightly. “That way our stories match.”

Stunned into silence, she looked up at him despite herself. He caught the dismay on her face and the edge of his mouth turned up. 

“What? I know where my pay comes from. You’re the boss, you hired me. Not any of them out there,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards the camp. “Sure, Inquisition funds are paying us, but that’s all you.”

Trevelyan closed her mouth, frowning. Somehow, she doubted that was the real reason, but she found it hard to be mad when such an obvious other explanation had been offered to her. One purely about the Iron Bull’s self interest, and not anything about her. It might even be true.

She scrubbed her better hand, the right hand, the normal hand, over her face. All the air of her lungs rushed out of her, and the next breath was just pure, damp salty air. A few plops echoed through the trees, then more, as the rain picked up again and pattered against the leaves.

“I don’t like--buzzing,” she said, at last, the words muttered into her palm.

“Huh,” he said. 

“Stupid Tevinter magic,” she said, louder, and to the air. “That’s what.”

“Got it,” he replied. Rain filled in the silence between them while they stared at the sea.

“So, just for the record. I full out head butted the mage guy who did that to you off a cliff,” said the Iron Bull.

“Really?” she said, turning to look at him. A smile had taken hold of the Iron Bull’s face, and he lifted the canteen to his mouth to take a swig of the horrible swill he’d connived off Harding.

“Yeah, wish you coulda seen the bastards face,” he said, glancing down at her, the smile upgrading to a grin. “Sort of this, like, o with his mouth? And his eyes looked like they were gonna fall out of his head.”

“You can’t be serious. Seriously? That’s amazing,” Trevelyan said, and for some awful reason, she found herself grinning, too.

\---

Trevelyan didn’t think she could ever be warm again. Snow had filled everything, her boots and her armor, even soaking through to her underclothes, and the memory of it stuck to her skin along with the vision of Haven falling down in flames. Still stuck deep in the mountains, the cold never fully went away. Solas had been giving her very fine directions, but they’d been traveling for days and the mountains all looked the same.

She’d nearly died. Perhaps she had died for half a moment, falling through the Chantry floor while a dragon wanted her dead. She’d stumbled through the snow for hours. First her fingers had gone numb, and then her feet, and then it had sunk into her limbs like poison following her veins to find her heart. But she refused to stop. The sleepiness had stolen in, but she’d refused it. Carried on. No, not like this. She’d never die like this after surviving that bastard in the first place.

There had been talk about frostbite. Between all the mages, they’d saved her toes, fingers, nose, and ears. Most people were whispering about miracles. 

She could use one soon. Solas kept promising one, but she didn’t know. She just had to lead them, keep going, never give up. People followed her around now and drew close, but left her essentially alone. A bubble filled the space around her, too intimidating to approach and too holy to leave alone. Privacy at last, sort of. 

It was late and she basically had the small fire in front of her tent to herself. She was hunched next to it with a metal mug filled with a hot soup in her hands. She didn’t eat it, just kept sticking it next to the fire to warm and pulling it back into her hands to hold it near her chest and try to remember being dry and warm. 

Dorian materialized out of the darkness, shivering under two hastily borrowed cloaks. The poor man had no constitution for the cold, and his mage robes weren’t designed for the weather. Quietly assuming he was searching for a fire where people wouldn’t be casting him dirty looks all the time, she didn’t comment as he struggled to her fire and plopped down next to her in a miserable heap.

“Did you know, that a man can freeze to death in these conditions in less than a day?” he queried aloud to the air. “Rather a morbid thought, considering, but since you clearly traipse through the snow singing songs and leaving daisies behind in your footprints, I suppose you’re immune.”

Trevelyan snorted into her soup cup. 

“Is that what they’re all saying now?” she said. “The messenger of Andraste is wasting the Maker’s power by growing plants only so they can freeze solid?”

“Absolutely. You also are seven feet tall, breathe fire, and--oh, perhaps that’s my distant uncle,” Dorian said, cupping his hands in front of his face and blowing into them. 

“They grow them tall in Tevinter,” she said, feeling the edge of her mouth curl.

“Tall as giants! Of course, can’t be a proper tyrant if you aren’t larger than everyone else as well as soak in the blood of virgins,” Dorian said brightly.

“Of course not,” she agreed.

“Blasted cold,” Dorian muttered, shivering. “Look, I can’t do it for long, but do you think if I shielded you, you might give me some of that good Adrastian mercy and get me a cup of whatever you’ve got? It’ll block out the wind at least, you get to be warm for two minutes, and I might be able to feel my fingers at the end.”

“In the name of the Maker, who cares for all of his children, especially evil Tevinter mages, I suppose I must,” she said, smiling. “Why don’t you just do that for yourself all the time?”

“Because I said, I can’t do it for long,” he muttered, miserable and looking like a damp heap of blankets as he hid under his cloaks.

Somewhere, between being thrown forwards through time and defending Haven, she’d gotten alright with magic. She still wasn’t sure what had possessed her to reach out to the mage rebellion before rushing to the Templar Order that her family had always trusted, but she had done it because it had felt like the right thing. Now she couldn’t entirely regret it. Magic was still strange, and still should be in the service of the Maker. They needed Circles, but.

But Dorian was alright.

“Okay, okay. Lay it on me,” she said, holding out her arm gingerly. Dorian smirked a bit from under his blankets, reaching over to lay his hand on her sleeve and muttered something while he focused.

She’d expected the wash of light and strange lightness that came from his barrier spells in battle. This was different. She could feel the air vibrating around her and a warmth enveloping her limbs. Blood circulation lurched under her skin with heat. She could feel her fingertips again.

It was making a sound in her ears, like a low hum.

It was a buzzing.

She drew in a sharp breath, the buzzing noise right there in her ears. Heavy and constant. Despite the heat, she felt like she’d been doused in cold water; goosebumps lifted on her skin, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t, she just--

“Travelyan!” Dorian breathed in alarm, and the buzzing suddenly stopped. Gauzy panic cleared from her vision, and Dorian had jerked back from her, looking genuinely ill. She realized her butt was in the snow, cold seeping under her belt, and she must have scrambled back from the cleared earth in a blind panic to get away.

Shit

Shit shit shit.

“Well that was unintendedly exciting,” he said, but there was a shake under the words.

She drew in a breath, trying to calm her racing heart. At least this time she hadn’t shrieked like a banshee, she thought in a fit of hysterics. 

“I--This has happened before, hasn’t it?” Dorian said suddenly, staring at her. His expression turned thoughtful, fine brows knitting close together. The words trapped her, pinning her to the earth, and she could only lift her chin and stare back at him. 

No words would come to her as she bared her teeth at him, shoulders stiff, and hands shoved into snow.

“It’s the same as those other two times,” Dorian said slowly. He held out a hand to her, lips pursing. “You reacted just the same, as if you’d seen a ghost and needed to scream. Completely pale, staring at nothing, as if the world was gone.”

“I didn’t scream, did I?” she said, the words suddenly exploding out of her with a fierce edge.

“Oh, no, not this time,” he said, and to his credit, Dorian didn’t even flinch as her eyes narrowed at him.

The longer they stared at each other, the heavier the stone in her gut became and the more she refused to show one more inch of weakness by taking help to get up.

Dorian suddenly huffed, rolling his eyes. 

“Come on now, I’m not going to bite you,” he said abruptly terse, “Not even if you ask nicely.”

She realized with a start there was--hurt, in his face. A tension underneath the mustache, pulling at the lines by his eyes and his mouth. Just one more person scared of the big, scary Tevinter mage who ate children and stole wives in the night.

No, whispered something in her gut. It hadn’t been the spell, it had been her. Her and her stupid--thing. He didn’t even know.

Dorian nearly fell over with the force of her hand smacking into his to grab it, then yanking on it to pull up to her feet. At the last second, he managed to catch his heels against the earth and she popped up to her feet instead of pulling him into the snow. 

“What if I asked really, really nicely?” she said, biting the words off like a challenge. He stared at her, eyebrows lifting nearly to his hairline and his mouth a little open. Surprise suited Dorian and made the angry and hurt lines go away.

Then laughter climbed up his throat, taking him in fits and starts, until he was pressing his mouth into his hand trying to muffle it.

“I’m a saint. A martyr,” she told him sharply, turning on her heel. “I’m getting you soup anyway.”

Too much to hope that Dorian would drop it, really, she thought as she stomped back from a startled and sleepy woman who was standing watch over the wagons and their meager supplies. Orange light flickered over the curious lines of his face, his elbows on his knees and his chin resting just so atop the knuckles of one hand. Knowing him, he’d cultivated the perfect idle thinking pose and, over time, had turned it into an unfortunate habit. His gaze focused on the fire and she could see him trying to put puzzle pieces together, and he didn’t even look at her when she thumped down with a snarl next to him on the cleared dirt.

She set two metal cups down next to the fire to warm.

“Now, let me guess, a horrible accident when you were a child involving….. flies?” Dorian ventured as she retreated into annoyed silence.

“No,” she said flatly.

“Is it my handsome good looks?”

At her glare, he smiled.

“You wound me. Hm, how about sudden and bright flashing lights?”

“No,” she said.

“Well, then how about--” and it was easy to see Dorian intended to play a guessing game all night and all the following weeks of maddening, endless mountain climbing until he got it right. This was worse than Sera still being mad about the bee jars. For Dorian, this was just a puzzle. It had nothing to do with her pride, he was just bored and needed to needle someone.

“Bees! By Andraste’s knickers,” she said--no, shouted--throwing up her arms and exploding with sudden frustration before deflating, curling in over her knees and resting her face against her arms. It was hard for a six foot six woman to feel small, but she shrank as she slumped.

She could feel Dorian’s astonished stare burning through her shoulder.

“It’s bees,” she muttered into the flesh of her hands. “I fucking hate bees.”

“I don’t know if hate is quite the word I would use,” he ventured. “Loathe? No. Despise? No, that’s more like a villain from a children’s story, I’ve had enough of those. I’ve been practicing my evil laugh.”

“I…..They make me sick,” she said, refusing to look at him.

That finally silenced Dorian Parvus. Angry, she ripped her hands through her hair. Her head lifted enough that she could direct all her fury at the fire in front of her and absolutely not at his face. She couldn’t bear to look at his expression of likely disappointment.

“When I was little, my younger brother thought it was funny to throw rocks at bee hives,” she said, edgey and terse. “Then one time he made a whole hive angry. I grabbed him and ran, but some of them got to me. I was young, but I was always tall for my age and big. I’d never….. It hurt. It hurt a lot. And then it kept hurting and I couldn’t breathe, and I fell over and it burned and burned.”

Shakes took her hands. She tightened her fists.

“I think at one point I passed out. Next I know, I’m back inside, and there’s a Circle Mage there. I could have died, but I didn’t. Alright. So I don’t like buzzing, or feeling insects on me, or stuff in my hair. Especially not bees. Okay?”

“It’s called an allergy,” Dorian said, sounding thoughtful. “Some people’s systems react poorly to their environment, as if it harms them, even if it might just be something simple like nuts.”

“I don’t care what it’s called,” she muttered. 

Howling wind dragged at the trees.

“You should take that mug, before it gets too hot to hold,” she said, grabbing her own mug and hunching around it.

Dorian made an annoyed sound, but she could see his hands in the corner of her eye as he picked up the other mug. He hissed, cold fingers jerking back from the hot metal, and he muttered something before picking it up properly. 

“I don’t understand, exactly, why this seems to be such a secret,” Dorian said. “It’s perfectly sensible that you dislike bees when you have a reaction to them.”

“It’s stupid!” She bit the words out, shoving her heels hard against the dirt. “I’m the Herald of Andraste, aren’t I? I can kill five men in five minutes. Hating bees, buzzing things--it’s easy to throw a cicada on me, or shove a fly in my hair, or whatever. I scream and gibber like a scared child. It’s stupid.”

Dorian fell silent, considering.

“Sera cannot know,” he announced.

“Yeah, no kidding,” she muttered.

“Is this why she’s been going on and on about jars of bees for ages?” Dorian ventured.

“Probably. I said no,” she said.

“Maybe its worth saying yes,” Dorian said slowly. “Just in a--temporary way. It might not even work, it’s just one of her mad ideas.”

Ghosts of crawling ant feet marched up her arms. Shuddering, she kicked at the ground. 

“I can’t stand the thought of a barrel of bees or something being kept somewhere close around,” she admitted. “Angry bees. Specifically bred to attack people. I’d--”

She’d die, if they got out. The phrase stuttered in her mouth. She wasn’t afraid of death, not really. She threw herself into battle, the recruits were always deeply impressed by her viciousness, and everyone looked up to her. She was the fearless one that strode into the darkness and said, ‘Let’s go. We can do this.’

She couldn’t be afraid of death by bees.

“Well, at the very least, you should inform Lelianna and Lady Montilyet,” Dorian said. “It’s something of a security concern in the right circumstances. Imagine if someone else found a way to bottle these bees the way Sera’s suggesting.”

The thought turned Trevelyan’s blood to ice. Staring at the fire, unseeing, she tried her very best to not conjure images of the result.

“Are you still with the living, Trevelyan?” Dorian said after a few minutes of horrified silence.

“No,” she moaned, setting her mug aside and pulling up her knees. She dropped her forehead to them, arms wrapping around her legs. 

“There, there. You’ll come back to the living like a good little Martyr,” he said. 

“Right, because the world’s still gonna end,” she said into her knees. “Maybe I should tell Sera yes after all. Then we’ll have all the bees and if they get loose, it’s the Inquisition that killed me. That’s almost better than an enemy doing it.”

“There’s an idea,” Dorian agreed, warmly, his mood improving with the warmth of soup and fire and her suffering.

She grunted at him, and he laughed, and for a moment, she felt warm.

\--

Over Skyhold, there were no clouds and only blue from east to west. She liked the weather at the roof of the world, and the fresh air slipped in through the open windows in the War Room. Setting up a new war table had been fussy and taken time, but it was a massive and pleasing edifice in the center of the beautifully appointed chamber. 

Trevelyan paced back and forth while she waited for her advisors to filter in from lunch served by the kitchens. She’d dressed down out of armor and into golden mail they’d found in a chest, the gilded scales whispering as she moved back and forth. Eventually she’d given in to Josephine’s insistent advice and stopped carrying around her heavy weapons where-ever she went inside the fortress. 

Apparently it showed her confidence in the security of the Inquisition.

The far door opened and Josephine swept in, the lined gold of her blouse softened to a complementary shade in the afternoon sunlight. It suited her far better than the hard edged, gold spectre she’d been in the dark room at Haven. Josephine favored Trevelyan with a practiced, warm smile as she approached the table and began sorting through the notes and messages she carried in with her, leaving Trevelyan to pace.

Lelianna and Cullen weren’t far behind. 

“I want to talk to you three about something confidential,” Trevelyan announced as Cullen dragged the heavy door shut. All three heads lifted and swiveled, focusing on her.

Trevelyan planted her feet and stood her ground, hands locked behind her back and shoulders square. It made her six foot six look about six inches bigger, she knew. 

“Of course,” said Josephine, recovering first. “We will hold anything of serious matter in the strictest of confidentialities. Please, Inqusitior.”

Josephine gestured for Trevelyan to draw closer while Cullen and Lelianna joined her at the table side. Trevelyan stared at them, one by one; the confusion and concern on Cullen’s face, the keen look of Lelianna’s eyes, and Josephine’s open and welcoming smile.

“It’s about Sera’s proposal for her--bee thing,” Trevelyan said.

Cullen’s confusions deepened and Josephine's brows drew together, joining him, but Lelianna tucked her mouth into a smile and moved around the table, searching for the proposal in the slush pile of papers.

“Don’t you remember, Josie?” Lelianna called, holding up the parchment of a report with a scrawled note on a piece of sack cloth tied to it. “The special weapon plan and apiary expert Sera’s network found.”

“Oh! Oh, right, I do remember,” Josephine said, hurrying to take the papers out of Lelianna’s hands.

“I said no,” Trevelyan said, hesitated, and then exhaled heavily out her nose. She turned her head away from them, focusing on the patterns of light on the far wall. “I want to change that to a yes.”

“That’s simply enough done,” Cullen said. “But I don’t, quite, see how that might be….”

There was a thump, as if someone’s foot had kicked metal, and Cullen broke off his words with a grunt.

“I don’t like bees,” Trevelyan said in a rush, before her bravery and will could fail her. “I. I don’t just not like bees. I’m allergic to bees, that’s the word Dorian used, I nearly died when I was a child and then people just kept putting buzzing things in my hair and my bed and I hate it and I panic.”

Winded by the end of it, she tried to control her breathing as she noted that the far wall needed some masonry patching. Some of the light showed through cracks in the stone where the grouting had fallen out.

“Yes, I know,” said Lelianna, her voice warm and amused.

“Wait, what?” said Cullen. “They put it in /your hair/? What sort of foul children did you grow up with?”

“That does rather explain the vehemence that you displayed about planting flowers in the courtyard,” Josephine mused.

“What?” Trevelyan said, rocking back on her heels and staring at Lelianna. The woman had a mysterious curve to her mouth, eyes dancing. 

“After your reaction the first time and Sera’s complaining, it wasn’t too hard to put two and two together,” Lelianna said lightly. “I made sure when we moved into Skyhold that they aired your room and ensured the windows were tight against small intruders, just in case.”

Trevelyan scowled. “I don’t need protecting from the damn things, it’s just dangerous if I’m stung by them. That’s why I’m telling you.”

“And we deeply appreciate it,” said Josephine, gesturing with Sera’s note in hand. “I agree. Its much more important to make sure this--apiary’s bee skills are in our service. If anyone were to think they could assassinate the Inquisitor with some bees, well, I want to have their potential source in our back pocket.”

Cullen, when she dared to look at him, had his hands on his hips and he was scowling down at the map in front of him.

“Torturing you with insects? You were just a child,” he said. “No wonder you hate the damn things. Its like when my sister kept putting mice in my bed, I kept feeling phantom things running over my feet for months.”

He lifted his eyes; their gazes met. Braced to reject pity, Trevelyan was shocked to see wry humor in the twist of his mouth. Sympathetic, but not dismissing her. Annoyed on her behalf, but not blaming her for screaming.

Trevelyan blinked a few times, hard and fast.

“Mice, eh?” Lelianna leaned on to her hands on the table, eyeing Cullen with the same mischievous glint to her eye. “I would never have guessed, Commander, that you disliked them so much. Just like the story of the lion and the mouse.”

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned her, and Josephine snorted.

“Well, then--that’s that,” Trevelyan announced. The tight wound feeling in her chest had left her, leaving her feeling empty and unsteady. “Contact that bee person but by the mercy of Andraste, don’t let any of it get near me.”

“I’ll get my people on it right away,” Josephine announced.

“Well, we could simply hire some mercenaries to search it out,” said Cullen, “It’s a waste of man power.”

“I don’t know if asking the Chargers to look for a wicked bee keeper is the best idea,” said Lelianna, and Trevelyan shoved herself back into the familiar back and forth of mediating her advisors.

\---

“Oye, Sera,” said Trevelyan, hanging just inside the open door to the terrace Sera had claimed five minutes after they’d arrived at Skyhold. Strange when compared to Sera herself, who couldn’t go five minutes without a dirty joke or laughing to herself about dirty words, the alcove had turned into a bright, soft, fanciful corner stuffed with bright pillows and shiny baubles. Sera sat on her claimed window seat, using a dagger to trim the fletching on stack of arrows dumped next to her. The pieces of feathers drifted to the floor at her feet, dusting it with bits of brown, black, and blue.

“Why hello you,” Sera said, not looking up. She hadn’t quite entirely forgiven her, but after routing out back stabbing nobles from the Re Jennies, she’d warmed back up to Trevelyan. “What’s got Ms Fancy Pants up here?”

“We’re going to research that bee thing you suggested,” Trevelyan said, pretending she was half-hiding around the doorframe because she was tall and hated ducking, and not because she wanted the option of shutting the door quickly when Sera started getting difficult.

Sera stared at her.

“What, that old thing? You’re really gonna do it?” she said, pulling back and lip curling in suspicious distaste.

“Yes, we’re going to track down your killer bees,” Trevelyan said. “I thought you’d be happy about it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m glad you’re understanding how bloody brilliant I am, but I don’t get it,” she said, flicking her gaze up to Trevelyan’s messy hair tied back from her face to the scarred leather boots on Trevelyan’s feet. “You said no over and over like a stupid stick in the mud. Nobles don’t do favors without expecting something in return, and you’re bloods so blue if I stabbed you it’d be--blue. Blue colored, not red. ‘Cause you’re noble.”

“Yeah, well, I bleed red, I’m pretty sure,” Trevelyan said, snorting. “Look, its not about doing you a favor. I just wanted to tell you we’re doing it, so start thinking about. Jar delivery systems or whatever.”

“What is wrong with you,” Sera said, rolling her eyes. She threw the dagger her hand at the far wall with a grunt, and it stuck in the wood with a thunk. The arrow followed it, not making nearly as satisfying sound. “First its no Sera and you’re all a big angry lump about it, not its yes Sera why aren’t you happy Sera. You don’t even hate insects or nothing.”

Trevelyan put a hand over her face.

“Bees can kill me, Sera,” she blurted out.

“Uh? Yeah, that’s the whole idea,” she said speaking slowly. “You know, killer bees. Killer. Like killing things. We’re gonna kill people with them, I knew you weren’t paying attention.”

“I was paying attention, I--” Heat rush into Trevelyan’s face. “I die more than a normal person! To normal bees! I nearly died when I was nine!”

“What? You mean somebody else already stole my idea when you were just a kid?” Sera said, offended.

“No! It wasn’t a special killer bee or jar of killer bees, it was a bee hive and I got stung like a million times!” Trevelyan threw up her hands. “They had to get a Circle Healer in, I almost died. And all the boys started throwing insects and crap at me, and if they did that buzzing thing, I freaked out. So when I hear buzzing it--”

Why was she telling Sera this? Sera was the last person in the world to tell that buzzing noises freaked her out.

 

“Oh, is that all?” Sera said, waving at her. “Well that’s not fun at all. Oh fuck, I’ll have to get rid of all the Stinkybutts I’ve been collecting. I found a right nice big one the other day.”

“What do you mean?” Trevelyan said, staring.

“Its not a good prank if it’s gonna kill you or scare you half to death,” Sera said, rolling her eyes. “That’s just being a bully. And I ain’t a bully, I’m just a bully to people who deserve that shit. You’re not a bully. You’re not actually like all them nobles out there, you know stuff.”

Pause.

“Well, so far.”

Trevelyan opened and shut her mouth, her fingers digging into the wood of the door frame.

“Of course it isn’t,” she agreed, her voice weak. “I’m glad I’m not a bully.”

“Really, you sure you’re paying attention to what people say to you? Maybe you should get somebody to hit you in the head, maybe there’s something in your ears,” Sera advised, picking up an arrow. She reached for her dagger, found it gone, muttered something and got to up yank it out of the wood wall.

“Maybe I’ll ask Cassandra to hit me over the head,” Trevelyan muttered, rubbing her hand down her jaw. She sure felt like she’d stepped into a strange alternate time line again.

“She’d be a good call. Dunno if she’d really hit you hard enough, you’d need Bull for that,” said Sera. “Hah, get it? ‘Cause he’s made of iron. That stuff’s hard.”

“Yeah, I’ll maybe ask him,” Trevelyan said, and she felt something strange--oh, she was smiling.

“See, I got great advice,” Sera announced, and Trevelyan laughed. “Dunno what the big deal was, bees. Coulda just said you hate the damn things. They’re all--yellow and black and weird. Stripy like. It’s weird to see flying things like that.”

“Yeah, yeah you--you’re probably right,” Trevelyan agreed, and she laughed and sat down while Sera began explaining the logistics of bee bottles.

\---

A scream pierced the night.

“I think that’s--someone catch that cicada!”

“I’m going to kill whoever brought that in there!”

“Aw, lookit, it’s so big and squishy.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll rescue you. Just--”

A crashing sound, and laughter.

Trevelyan still hated bees and buzzing, but it wasn’t so bad anymore.


End file.
